


Calm Before the Storm

by calmdad



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 20:23:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17311277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmdad/pseuds/calmdad
Summary: If her family could see her now, they'd be ashamed. They'd be horrified at their feckless dreamer of a daughter daring to touch what may as well be their saint in a flight of fancy. They'd beg for forgiveness.Romelle has never been good at denying her impulses; why should she start now?





	Calm Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mochi, who wanted some of that sweet Lomelle goodness. I hope you enjoy! <3

Life in the colony is simple by design. Everything they need is provided for them, every resource carefully managed to avoid waste, with every member of their community wanting for nothing. Nothing material, that is. All of her friends and family seem perfectly content to live their lives free of all worry, the certainty that they’re taken care of allowing them to remain placid.

Romelle, on the other hand, has always had a rebellious spirit. She’s the first to tear her clothes and skin her knees climbing trees that enable her to see further beyond the lands they call home. No matter how many times Luca snubs her or Tavo chastises her, it soon became a fact of the universe that grass is green, water is wet, and Romelle would be disobedient until the day she returns to her ancestors.

It stands to reason that the only thing off-limits to her remains the only thing she desperately wants to claim for her own, just to say she can.

Lotor is a figure that’s featured prominently in their daily life, from paying respects to the statue in his honor to children who each take their turns playing out what they all hope is their eventual liberation. His is a presence that’s larger than life itself, and his rare visits are the highlight of their simple days. Most fear approaching him; ever since her girlhood there’s been an unspoken rule against disrupting his important work in maintaining the colony. But by her own philosophy, there isn’t a rule out there that can’t be broken.

It starts with little steps. Even Romelle isn’t fearless enough to dive into this particular ocean without testing the waters first. Bandor notices when she stops during their walk, tries to urge her onwards, but the second he sees that particular glint in her eye, all he can do is watch in barely-disguised horror. She approaches slowly, the way one might a great and imposing beast-- not that there ever was such a thing in her memory; Lotor has seen to it that the colony is rid of all dangerous predators.

All but one, it seems.

He’s flanked by a pair of medical staff that always make her shudder during her regular physicals, and she can just manage to catch something that might be “ _water supply._ ” Or maybe it’s “ _want to fly._ ” Could Lotor fly, if he had the inclination to? Romelle is no expert on the abilities honed by their race; why, she can barely maintain control of her shapeshifting, but if there was anyone who could figure out a way to achieve flight without the need for a ship, she supposes he would make for a fine candidate.

Evidently, she isn’t as stealthy as she likes to think, because during her next step forward, Lotor’s gaze flickers up from the holoscreen in front of him to look her straight in the face. She freezes, but the momentum already carrying her forward causes her to trip on the hem of her skirts. Down she goes, straight into the dirt. So much for little steps.

As Romelle burns with humiliation, she hears a distant, gleeful call of “This is the greatest day of my _life_!” from Bandor. Note to self: Perform the ancient and sacred duty of Elder Siblingdom by wringing his skinny little neck later on.

Before she can right herself, there’s another voice above her, far different from her brother’s crowing about her comeuppance. “Are you alright?” Lifting her gaze has her confronted with the same face that caused her tumble in the first place. Lotor’s brows are drawn together in concern, far, far too close for comfort. Stars above, were his eyes always that blue? “What are you doing?”

The question isn’t harsh or demanding, only curious, and before she can stop herself, she blurts out, “Can you fly?” _Stupid, foolish idiot!_ Romelle shoots to her feet, shakes out the grit from the fabric of her clothes, and resists the urge to fan her flush of embarrassment. “That-- Er, that is, I was… Thinking about flying, and before I knew it--” A nervous titter as her hand swipes down to collide with her waiting palm in demonstration. “Just like that!” Another pause. “Well, I suppose you were there for that bit, after all.” Saints, kill her now and let it be a mercy.

The look he exchanges with the masked figures nearby doesn’t go unnoticed. “A concussion, do you suppose?” one of them asks, and isn’t the strangest thing that a question in robotic monotone can manage to sound condescending?

Now Romelle burns with a completely different emotion. Spots of red appear around her marks as she marches over to the one who spoke, index finger prodding them in the chest none too gently. “Now, see here, Mister--” Wait, no, she wouldn’t want to be accused of ignorance. “See here! Just because a woman is flustered doesn’t mean it’s from some head injury! I’ll thank you to keep your medical opinions to yourself next time, you great _brute_ \--”

In her haste to correct an insult, she’s managed to completely forget someone. Lotor clears his throat, laying a hand atop Romelle’s shoulder to steady her. “I’ll thank you not to intimidate the people in my employ, Miss…?”

That shames her enough to duck her head in an attempt to avoid his gaze. “Romelle.” Surely saying anything more would only make things worse on her.

“Romelle, then. Would you mind accompanying me somewhere else for a moment? I fear we’re beginning to draw a crowd.”

Looking around, she can see he’s right. Far from just Bandor, now it feels as though half the colony has gathered to see her make a fool of herself. Merla’s covering her mouth with one hand as though she’s trying not to laugh, and the realization dawns that this must be justice. Romelle decides that she’ll just have to face this with what few scraps of her dignity remain, head held high as she follows Lotor into the confines of his ship.

Inside feels like a whole new world, full of technological whatsits and more holoscreens flashing all sorts of colors showing information she can’t even begin to parse. It’s spacious in here, which surprises her though it shouldn’t; who knew how far Lotor had to travel to reach them, and why wouldn’t he be able to do so in style? Romelle lays a palm upon what looks to be the central dashboard and then snatches her hand back, thinking better of it.

This is a place few if any of her fellow Alteans ever got to see. She should feel privileged, dwarfed by the size and scope of something that could take her light years away from their home. Perhaps she should pray, like some of her more devout neighbors? But no, all she can feel is the urge to touch everything, look at this and that and see what this thing over here does. That might only serve to get her into more trouble, though, so Romelle puts up a valiant effort to look respectful and penitent or whatever it is that would get her out of this faster.

“Lotor,” she begins, and for a moment she’s struck by how strange it is to address him by name, “I wanted to apologize for my insolence earlier-- It won’t happen again.”

“Ah, that.” Here, he waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t fret about something so small; Jurdin sometimes needs reminding that he isn’t the only authority over a person’s own body. Besides,” Lotor’s expression turns sly, echoing a thousand instances of mischief she can name from her youth, “something tells me I can expect it to happen again. You don’t seem to be the type to stay contrite for very long, and  I’d rather we both refrain from making promises we can’t keep.”

What is there to say in response to that? Romelle tries floundering for a response that won’t come, and settles for the rather underwhelming, “Yes, you’re probably right. Sorry.”

Again with the hand gestures. Something tells her he’d make for an animated storyteller if he ever tried. “Nothing to be sorry for, I assure you. It’s good to want answers, whether it’s from the universe or individuals.” A quiet chuckle as he regards her. “If anything, you remind me a bit of myself. Full to bursting with questions and no answers. I can’t promise anything, but if it’s to satisfy the curiosity of a fellow seeker, then by all means. Ask away.”

Where to even begin? “Well, for starters, Bandor told me that our ancestors had to subsist on basically nothing but _goo_ , which just seems positively ridiculous to me-- I mean, _really_ , a race that advanced hasn’t even managed to figure out how to make food taste good? And all these ships! Who cares if they’re a bit clunky if they can still take you anywhere you’d like to go? I hear there’s a galaxy somewhere that’s supposed to taste like a fruit no one’s ever _heard_ of! How can a thing like that be possible, and why isn’t anyone out there exploring them? Oh, drat it, all this talk of food is making me hungry, and another thing--”

When she finally takes a moment to catch her breath, she spies Lotor looking at her with an odd light in his gaze.

“What is it?” Her cheeks heat up self-consciously as she moves to smooth imaginary ceases in her skirts. “Is there something wrong with me?”

He shakes his head, locks of white hair cascading down his shoulders with the motion. “Not at all, no, it’s just-- You’ve got some of the old blood in you.” It holds a note of admiration that leaves her eager to lean in, soak up all his enthusiasm and keep his stories to herself. “The ancient Alteans who wouldn’t think twice about tearing off on some grand expedition. I fear much of that’s been lost over millennia.”

Romelle ponders this for a moment, expression pinched in concentration as she mulls it over, before her expression abruptly clears and she declares with utmost confidence, “Well, then all it takes is finding it again! I suppose I’ll have to be the one to do it, since you’re much too busy doing…” It’s here that her imagination fails her, and she covers it with a hasty, “ _Whatever_ it is that saviors are supposed to be doing, savior-ing everything in the universe.”

The answering laughter, restrained though it might be, makes her warm down to her toes. “I’m afraid it isn’t quite as dramatic as all that. Quite the opposite, I assure you.”

The bitter undercurrent to his words says more than the words themselves, and the inkling she’s had since stepping onto this ship crystallizes into total certainty. For all his great deeds, Lotor is just like any other man, with any other man’s regrets and failures to accomplish all he sets out to do. Far from stripping away the last of her respect, it only serves to endear him more to her, and it gives her the courage to reach out and clasp his hand.

If her family could see her now, they'd be ashamed. They'd be horrified at their feckless dreamer of a daughter daring to touch what may as well be their saint in a flight of fancy. They'd beg for forgiveness.  
  
Romelle has never been good at denying her impulses; why should she start now?   
  
He flinches at the contact, the startled look in his eyes carefully smoothed into a mask of indifference. "What are you doing?" Not angry, then. Puzzled. Hesitant, maybe, and isn't that just the silliest thought? It’s a mirror of their earlier interaction, but unlike her blunder back then, this is deliberate and full of intent.   
  
She can't help herself, she leans closer into his orbit. "Only what I always try to do whenever possible." This is punctuated with an impish grin. "What I want."

Is it her imagination playing tricks on her, or did that prompt a hard swallow? This is further than she’s ever pictured herself, ever dared accomplishing during her dreams of conquering the unconquerable. Romelle holds her breath and waits, keenly aware that any moment, he could choose to throw her off the ship in disgrace.

He doesn’t.

“Then by all means,” he says again, voice hushed, every syllable placed with care. “Who am I to deny a woman on a warpath?”

It’s all the invitation she needs for a new kind of exploration that, while different from what she expected, still sets her nerves ablaze with every touch. This is uncharted territory Romelle aims to map out with as much detail as possible, uncovering each edge and dip for herself. It doesn’t matter how temporary this is, the mere fact that she gets to experience it at all is something she’ll keep close to her chest and treasure all her days.


End file.
